How Glory Goes
by Marguerite1
Summary: A night of vigilant mourning. Follows "This is Not Happening."


**How Glory Goes**

Classification: Post-ep for "This is Not Happening"   
Summary: A night of vigilant mourning. 

*** 

Only Heaven knows how Glory goes,   
What each of us was meant to be.   
In the starlight, that is what we are.   
I can see so far... 

Adam Guettel, "How Glory Goes" 

***   


The guilt is choking me. My heart has been in my throat from the moment I saw   
the tattered blanket. Like my son, like my little boy, don't need to open it,   
don't need to have this worst of nightmares confirmed... 

I can't get enough air in my lungs. I fall behind Skinner as he takes off after   
Scully, yelling for her to stop, his voice loud enough to be heard above her   
anguished screams. I'd raise my own voice if I could find it. Instead I peer   
into the weird shaft of bright light and shade my eyes. Her silhouette is   
visible, kneeling, arms upraised to an empty heaven. 

She's still screaming. 

"NOOOOOO!" 

Skinner flinches as if her cry were an arrow piercing his flesh. "Dana - Dana,   
stop!" 

All Skinner's pretense of "Agent Scully" is gone and for a moment I wonder how   
Skinner earned that right, what private hell he endured that gave him such a   
precious liberty. He wraps his arms around her from behind but she twists and   
breaks free, still screaming, still beckoning toward whatever she thinks can   
bring Mulder back from the dead. 

I elbow my way through a tangle of horrified FBI guys and fleeing cultists so I   
can try to help Skinner hold on to her. She fights us both and there's nothing   
of Dana Scully in those dilated eyes, just an emptiness so vast that if I look   
into her pupils I would see all the way down to the baby she's carrying.   
Finally, she does something worse than struggling, worse than cursing us, worse   
than screaming Mulder's name over and over and over. 

She gives up. 

Scully goes limp. Her fight is gone, her light is gone, there's nothing but the   
dead stare she shares with Mulder. 

Skinner takes her from me, not in a proprietary way but because she'd be   
embarrassed to come to herself and find me holding her. He enfolds her the way   
Cindy wouldn't let me when I told her about Luke. 

"I'm sorry," I gasp, surprised that I can even force three words out of my tight   
throat. "I'm sorry we didn't get to him in time." 

Scully looks up at me with eyes so wet that they look like fresh paint. Fresh   
pain. "You didn't do this thing. You didn't take his life. You can't...you   
can't..." She dissolves in hiccuping sobs. They hurt her, they tear at her, and   
she puts her hands over her belly and falls halfway to her knees. Skinner   
catches her, helps her turn her head as she retches over and over, emptying   
herself from the very core of her being. 

Some of the FBI agents have spotted us and are standing in the doorway. Skinner   
turns on them and snarls: "Get the hell out of here. NOW!" He's placed his bulk   
between their line of sight and Agent Scully's trembling body and I join him to   
make the screen complete. No one needs to see this. And she doesn't need to be   
seen either. 

I didn't need to be seen those first few hours after I found Luke's body. I was   
a maniac, howling my anguish to the four winds, ramming my fists into the wall   
until my knuckles opened and spilled blood. Scully may well try something like   
that if her body will hold her up long enough. I try to convey this to Skinner   
with a concerned look, but he's way ahead of me, signaling the same fear to me.   
His eyes are black behind his glasses, compassionate and afraid. 

Scully straightens up with a little moan. I give her my handkerchief. I let my   
fingers connect with her wrist for a few seconds but I can't look into the empty   
vacuum of her eyes. She wipes her mouth and sags against Skinner. He puts his   
hand on the side of her head, his large palm sweeping her hair away from her   
face. 

"I'm so sorry, Dana." 

She nods and moves away from him just a little, enough so that she can look at   
him without twisting her neck. "I want the body at Quantico by tomorrow   
morning." 

It takes a second for the meaning to register. 

Jesus. 

Skinner fields it. "No. No autopsy." 

"I have to know ...I have to know everything he felt..." 

I step in. "Agent Scully, we know how the others were treated. How Gary died.   
We've learned all we possibly could. Let him rest now. Let him rest." 

Her spine goes rigid and her mouth hardens into a thin line. I can imagine her   
taking a scalpel to Mulder's violated body, cataloguing his injuries with the   
same professionally-coated agony that she showed when she did the autopsy on   
Gary. I can also imagine her going home afterwards and eating her gun. 

Skinner stares her down, not unkindly but firmly, and with a defiant lift of her   
chin she gives in just a little. "We can talk about that later," she says. "But   
for now, he's not going to stay out here. The morgue. And I'm staying with the   
body to make sure that nothing happens." 

"Agent Scully," I protest, feeling another wave of bile melting the skin on the   
roof of my mouth. "We can post guards there, anyone you pick. Guys who owe me   
favors." 

"No, Agent Doggett. I won't leave him." A beat of silence. "I can't." 

"Then let Agent Doggett go with you," Skinner says softly. 

The edge of her mouth twitches as she nods again. Her fingers graze the sleeve   
of Skinner's overcoat. "I'd like you there, too, sir." 

He looks relieved. Honored. But he says nothing, just puts her arm through his   
and leads her back to the sad scene. 

Monica hovers near as Scully kneels down next to Mulder's body. Skinner takes   
off his overcoat and puts it over Scully's shaking shoulders. She pulls back the   
blanket and runs her fingers over Mulder's scarred face. "Mulder," is her broken   
whisper. "Mulder." She leans over and kisses the white forehead and the blue,   
cracked lips. We don't have to pull her away this time. She wraps him back up   
herself, lingering a moment over his heart, then draws herself up to her feet.   
"Let's get him out of here," she says to Skinner. 

One of the team leaders, Jerry, is an old buddy from the Academy. I pull him   
aside. "I'd like you to be in charge of the morgue detail, okay?" 

Jerry looks crestfallen, hating to lose one of his own, hating to see a   
partner's suffering. "Tell her I'll take care of everything, John. And that I'm   
sorry." 

I give him a nod of thanks and step over to where Scully and Skinner are staring   
at the bundle on the ground. Monica comes with me and tries to hug Scully, but   
she's rebuffed. Not rudely, just enough to let her know that this isn't the   
right time. And not from a stranger. I pat Monica's shoulder as I help Scully   
into the squad car. Monica's a good person and someday she might be able to   
help. Just not tonight. 

We follow the grim procession to the hospital. Skinner says something to one of   
the attendants at the morgue and the man nods his understanding. Scully stares   
at the windowless wall as if she can see the process going on in the other room,   
as if she can see the bloody, filthy blanket being removed and Mulder's cold   
body being cleaned as well as possible before being wrapped in a sheet. Toe tag,   
Mulder, Fox W. A stainless steel drawer. Cold. Toe tag, Doggett, Lucas M. A   
stainless steel drawer. Cold. 

I start to shudder. Little movements at first, then I'm shaking like a leaf.   
Scully sees me and looks into my face, concerned. "Agent Doggett - are you   
okay?" 

That she can ask me this at such a time rips my gut apart. "Yeah, fine," I   
answer, surprised at how weak my voice is. I'm having trouble taking in air,   
dammit, I'm gonna fall on my ass in a second... 

Skinner yanks a chair up behind me and guides me into it. Shit. This is about   
her, not about me, I remind myself - or at least it will be about her when the   
room stops tipping to the left. Scully finds the water cooler and brings me a   
cup. I remember a cup of water from the first time met, when I ended up wearing   
it, and I can tell from Scully's sad, quivering smile that she remembers it,   
too. I take the cup and drink from it, surprised at how thirsty I am as the cold   
liquid tickles every inch of my throat. 

Scully has her mouth open to ask me what's wrong when the waiting room door   
opens. The attendant Skinner had spoken to earlier greets us with a genuine   
expression of sorrow. "We're ready for you now." 

I would give everything I own to have a single freakin' clue what to do right   
now. 

As we file in, he brings in extra chairs for us and tells us where we can get   
coffee or something to eat. A woman pulls me aside. The name tag on her uniform   
says "Engracia Vicente." She's almost as short as Scully and has the same   
heart-shaped face only rounder and softer, without the pained lines that the   
last few months have etched on her skin. She points out the drawer where   
Mulder's body waits then starts to make her exit, turning around to give me some   
advice. "You make sure you keep an eye out for her. She don't need nothin' else   
to hurt her tonight." 

Skinner gets Scully two chairs, the extra one for her feet, which she puts up   
with a sigh of relief. Her ankles are swollen and her insteps bulge over the   
sides of her black shoes. 

"You want anything, Agent Scully?" I hear myself asking. 

Yeah, she wants something, you asshole. She wants her partner back. She wants   
her lover back. She wants to have his hands on her belly so that she can tell   
him about her miracle. She wants that drawer to fly open and for Mulder to sit   
up and yell "April Fool!" She wants you to shut the hell up and let her grieve.   
She wants you to go away so she can crawl in there with him and die. 

She's too classy to tell me all that in words, so she gives it to me with a lift   
of her eyebrow. I feel the sourness rising again as she dissolves in pain, her   
military upbringing at war with her raw grief. Skinner's on his feet in a flash,   
his hands hovering over her but not touching. Even he doesn't know what to do   
next. We've seen Scully in command, in full battle armor, in control, but this   
woman is someone we don't know and can't help. 

Not that I'd be much help, if what happened between Cindy and me is any   
indication. In the days and weeks following Luke's death, she slipped away from   
me. By degrees, like a slow cold front edging through our lives, and before I   
knew it, winter had frozen us. 

Skinner inclines his head toward me, saying out loud, "We're going to get some   
coffee. We'll be back in a few minutes." 

She looks right through us - we're giving her time to cry herself out and she's   
fully aware of it. "You don't have to," she says in a rough whisper. "I'm fine." 

The legend of "ScullyFine" is one of the most widely reported in the FBI. She   
was fine the day of her father's funeral, fine when she was riddled with cancer,   
fine when she came back from Antarctica with frostbite on almost every inch of   
her body. Her "fine" is any other person's point of absolute collapse. 

"You're not fine, Dana," Skinner says. "You're in shock and you're in pain." He   
sets his jaw, removing his glasses and wiping his eyes with the back of his   
hand. "We need to help you but we don't know how." 

She shakes her head. Strands of hair fall across her face like bloody slashes.   
"I don't think anyone can help me now. I just...I just..." 

Oh, God, she's going to break into a million pieces right in front of us. My   
face aches with the effort not to join her. "I think you should get that   
coffee," she manages to say. 

I nod at her, smiling weakly, and follow Skinner out into the hall. He lets out   
a heavy sigh. "I don't know how to get her through tonight." 

"We'll have to play this by ear." I regret that statement as our ears are   
assaulted by the sound of Scully's hoarse, gasping sobs. Skinner lowers his head   
as if the stamp of guilt and regret is made of lead. His pain is as visceral as   
hers, radiating from him in the way he stands, the way he breathes, the way he   
grits his teeth and sets his jaw to keep from breaking down. 

We leave the morgue, taking the elevator up to a staff lounge. The pickings are   
slim, but we suck it up and settle on a couple cups of coffee and some   
sad-looking Twinkies. The place is deserted at this hour. Skinner starts to   
leave but I hold him back. "Give her a few more minutes." 

He adjusts his glasses so he won't have to look at me. "I don't want to leave   
her down there alone." 

"Yeah, me neither. But I think she needs a little more time to process this." 

Skinner stares into the greasy swirl floating on the top of his coffee. "I   
wasn't ten feet away from him when it happened. He was there, and then he   
wasn't. Just that fast." He takes a bite of the Twinkie, makes a face, and   
throws the remainder into the trash can. "She trusted me to protect him. I   
wanted to, Agent Doggett. It meant everything to me that I should keep him safe,   
but I couldn't do it." 

"We've both been in positions of command, sir. We've both seen men go down when   
we'd been charged to keep them out of harm's way. It happens. It's horrible and   
it's wrong, but it does happen." I suddenly wish Monica was here. Women are so   
much better at this stuff than men. "Sir, she doesn't blame you." 

His voice is as bleary as his eyes. "I wish I could believe that." 

I make a three-point shot with my cup and start walking out of the room. "Let's   
get back," I say without turning around, giving him a moment to collect himself   
before he joins me in the elevator. We don't talk. Maybe he won't notice that I   
know his secret. 

Too many secrets, I think as we open the morgue door and find Scully sitting   
with her chin in her hands. Her eyes are swollen but dry, and her nose is red.   
She looks up at us with a sad smile. 

"Their coffee sucks and I wouldn't trust their milk, either, if I were you," I   
tell her. "We'll call someone, get something good. You oughta eat." 

Scully shakes her head. "I can't." 

"Yeah, well, we'll see about that." I step outside and find Engracia. "We've   
tried the staff lounge and there's nothing decent in there. Know anyplace   
that'll deliver?" 

"Sure thing. This place will send enough stuff to get you through the night. She   
should be eating, pobrecita." She points out the phone and a number scrawled on   
a note pad. "Was he the father? The man you're watching over?" 

That's a damn good question and I don't know the answer for sure, although I   
have strong suspicions. "He was her partner," I say, trying to be ambiguous, but   
Engracia sees right through me. 

"Look, it's not my business, but I can ask someone from ob/gyn to come down and   
take a look at her. This kind of stress...you know what it can do." 

The world is full of good people but I almost never get to meet them - and when   
I do, it's always at a time like this. "Thanks. We'll keep that in mind. She's a   
very proud woman and she'd kick my ass if I got too protective, but she's also a   
doctor and she has enough sense to know if she's in trouble. But I appreciate   
it." 

"That's what I'm here for." 

I finish placing the order and return to our vigil. Skinner is holding Scully's   
hands and rubbing them gently when I come back in. "There's some food on the   
way." I walk over to Scully, wishing like hell that she'd let me touch her, but   
instead I settle for sitting on my heels and looking into her eyes. "I know you   
don't want to, but you need to." I let my gaze flicker to the almost   
imperceptible roundness of her belly. She puts her hand there, maybe covering   
the baby. Maybe stroking it, it's hard to tell, but she looks at me with those   
endlessly sorrowful eyes and nods her agreement. 

"Good." I take a chair and pull it up close. We just sit there in a heavy, sad   
silence. I flash back to Mulder's ruined face, so different from the strong,   
intelligent images I'd studied. Holes everywhere. They'd probably drilled his   
palate, cut open his chest, cut open his gut. I imagine him lying there,   
strapped down but awake, terrified, watching as they tore his flesh apart. He   
screams, he cries out for Scully, he dies with her name on his lips, begging for   
one last look at this woman who was his whole life. Did he know about the cells   
dividing inside her when he said goodbye and got on an airplane with Skinner? 

"He didn't know." For a horrible, guilty second I'm afraid that I asked my   
question out loud, but when I look at Scully I can see that she's just telling   
me something I need to understand. "I didn't know, myself. I felt sick. I   
thought it was a cold, or stress. It wasn't until afterward..." 

"He would never have left if he'd known." I'm telling her this because I saw how   
hurt she was when Monica put out her cult theory. "He'd never've left you." 

"I know." She covers her mouth with her hands, shaking, trying not to cry. "He   
always wanted to protect me...even when I didn't want it...he felt so terrible   
about...what happened to me...the tests..." 

Skinner wraps his arms around her and holds her. "It's okay. We know. We know." 

"We didn't think it worked, the in vitro, but the doctor was wrong..." 

I look at Skinner, seeing shock and confusion that must surely be mirrored on my   
face. 

"He did it for me, he went in there and signed the papers and...he..." 

Whoa. I don't want this much information. "You don't have to tell us," I say,   
trying to ward off future embarrassment. 

She comes out of her half-hysterical trance, looking at me with startled eyes.   
"I'm sorry. I thought you knew. That they'd told you when I was in the   
hospital." 

"No. I think they thought that was..." I shrug. "Private?" 

"But you're sure. You know now," Skinner says. 

"Yes. After the Zeus Genetics fiasco, I fired my doctor and went to an old med   
school friend instead. He did an ultrasound and an amnio and let me check the   
results myself. The baby is ours, Mulder's and mine. I did the DNA workup three   
times using three different hair and blood samples." 

"Boy or girl?" I ask. Inane conversation, keep her talking. 

She smiles a little even though her chin quivers. When she looks at me, the   
light of eternity is shining in her eyes. "Girl." Her voice cracks a little. "I   
think he'd have liked that, don't you?" 

Skinner wipes condensation off his glasses. "Mulder would've liked a daughter.   
He'd have spent his every waking moment spoiling her. Painted aliens on the   
ceiling and read H.G. Wells to her." We chuckle for a moment, Scully wiping her   
eyes on her sleeve. 

"Do you really think he'd have been happy?" Scully asks in a voice like a   
frightened child's. She needs to hear this, needs us to talk about him, needs to   
stay connected to him for just a little while longer. 

"More than anything, he wanted your happiness," Skinner answers. "I can't count   
the number of times he went to the mat for you, how many times he put his life   
on the line." He squeezes her hands again. "Just like you did for him." 

"Do you think...he knew...how much..." 

This must be ripping Skinner's heart right out of his chest. His face looks like   
a martyred saint's. "Dana. He knew. He lived for you, you know that. And you   
know that he fought so hard, so hard to get back home." That does it. He starts   
to cry, harsh, wracking sobs that he tries to hide behind his hands but can't   
because Scully reaches out to him and they hold one another, clinging to each   
other in hopes of surviving this howling despair. 

"Lemme check on the food," I whisper, leaving them behind for a moment so that   
they can grieve in private. Sure enough, Engracia's buzzing the delivery guy in   
just as I emerge. I pay him, adding a huge tip in gratitude for the late hour.   
Engracia frowns up at me. 

"You don't look good." 

"Yeah, well, I don't feel so good tonight." I didn't mean it to come out as   
roughly as it did, so I open my mouth to apologize. 

Engracia shrugs it off. "I'm just sayin' is all. You two gonna take care of her   
now? You need to take care of yourselves first." 

"Good point. Thanks." I open the door. "Food's here." 

Skinner has tried to put his granite face back on, but without his glasses it   
just doesn't work. He twitches the corner of his mouth at me in thanks as he   
takes a sandwich and a cup of coffee. He follows me outside - even I know enough   
not to eat in a morgue -and brings Scully with him. He touches her elbow,   
guiding her, tipping his head down so that I can't see his face. I bet it's been   
ten years since he showed anyone that much emotion, and I bet he'd rather have   
chewed off his own hand than done it in front of me. 

"Thanks, this is fine." Scully's voice is rough, dark, as she takes the little   
milk carton but refuses the food. 

"Nuh uh." I thrust the sandwich back at her. "You gotta eat." 

"I don't think I can." Her thin fingers tap her lips in a gesture I remember all   
too well from Cindy's pregnancy. 

"Try, okay? If you toss it up later, big deal. But she's gotta be starving in   
there." I point the sandwich at her stomach, and to my surprise Scully snatches   
it out of my hand and opens the wrapper to take a bite. 

So that's the route. Just like Teresa Hoese clinging to life because of her   
baby. 

We don't talk during the meal. What the hell could we say to each other, anyway?   
I pick up the trash and toss it in the big can in the corner on our way back to   
Mulder. The light switches are there by the door and I flick half of them off,   
subduing the light, softening the shadows on Scully's face. "Try and get some   
rest, Agent Scully, okay?" 

"Yeah. Thanks." She scoots a chair this way and that, finally ending up next to   
Skinner and letting him put her head down on his shoulder. His arm slides around   
her, keeping her from falling, but the hand that's not touching her is gripping   
the arm of the chair so hard that I'm surprised it doesn't snap in two. 

I'm surprised he doesn't snap in two. 

I lean back against the wall to grab a catnap, something I learned in my early   
days in New York. It's not real sleep, just a slight relaxation of the muscles   
that gives me a little extra energy, and I can keep one eye half open to check   
out my surroundings. 

Skinner's face looks gaunt. I know he didn't get much sleep last night - I   
didn't, either, and I was watching her from my window when I saw him join her   
under the trees. They must have been talking about Mulder, because she was   
crying and she leaned into his chest and let him hold her while she wept. After   
a while he turned her around and walked her back to her room. 

His hand was still in her hair and he looked so sad, so hopeless, that for a   
moment I felt worse for him than I did for her. Even in the dim glow of cheap   
motel neon, I could read his face like an open book. 

The poor bastard is in love with Dana Scully. 

Jesus. And I thought my life was complicated. 

Skinner's arm falls slowly away from Scully's shoulders. She places it in his   
lap, tenderly stroking his hand, and moves her chair away so we can talk without   
waking him. She has remorse in her eyes. 

"I got him up in the middle of the night," she tells me, taking a bite of her   
sandwich and a sip of milk without looking at either one. 

"We were all up last night. Think you can get some sleep?" 

Her shoulders stiffen. "I don't want to sleep just yet. I'm...afraid. Of what I   
might dream." 

"I understand that, Agent Scully." Am I too close, invading the meager space   
she's putting up between herself and the insanity that wants to snatch her away? 

She raises her head, that sad, pale face somehow luminous. For an instant I see   
something in her the way Mulder must have seen, strong and intelligent and   
compassionate all at once. She's reading me, but not the way she did these last   
few months. 

"How do you understand?" 

I shake my head. "Some other time." 

"Please." It's not just curiosity, it's a need to connect with me on some level. 

"I don't know where to start." I take in a shaky breath, then reach into my   
pocket for the photo. The one I keep with me constantly. I hand it to her. "This   
is my son, Luke." 

Scully looks at the photograph and smiles. "He's beautiful." 

"When I was a beat cop in New York, he was kidnapped by a pseudo-satanic cult.   
Taken right out from a group of school kids at the Natural History Museum." 

Cindy screamed, begged me to find him, and I tried, I tried so damn hard, I   
couldn't get the sound of her screams out of my ears, wanted to go deaf, wanted   
to go blind, too, once I saw what they'd done to my little boy... 

"Oh, my God." One hand hovers over Scully's own baby and the other flies to her   
mouth. Above her trembling fingers I can see her eyes filling with tears. 

"I headed the search team. They brought in Monica Reyes to help - that's where I   
met her. We never found the bastards who took him, but we did find my son. I   
found...my son." I can see from her expression that I don't need to tell her   
anything else. She understands. She knows. And I wish to God that she didn't. 

She gets up, takes a couple of steps forward, and kneels in front of me, folding   
my fingers around Luke's photograph. We share something in that brief flash of   
time, one moment where, finally, no one's lying to anyone, no one's withholding   
anything. "I am...so sorry," she whispers. "I didn't know. No one ever told me." 

"Don't." She's dropped her forehead onto her hands and is about to cry, but I   
can't let her waste her tears on my account. "Don't be sorry. I thought about   
letting you know - but you were so upset already that it didn't seem like a good   
idea. Just don't take this on yourself. There's enough guilt to go around   
already." 

"That's why you were so determined to find Mulder. I thought...I thought you   
were in with Kersh, somehow." 

"Yeah, I can see why. He sure has tried to reel me in." I tilt my head down so   
that my eyes are level with hers. "But you gotta believe me - I didn't want it   
to be like this. I wanted to find him alive. I wanted to get him back to you." 

She presses her lips together, forming a dimple in her chin as she struggles to   
hold herself together. "I owe you an apology." 

How she can think that with Mulder's cold corpse not four feet away and the   
fresh hell of her situation bearing down on her like a wild animal...it's beyond   
me. "You owe me nothin', Agent Scully." 

"He told me that once. Mulder. He was wrong, too. Just like you." 

"I wish I'd known him." We exchange glances, Scully smiling a little at the   
thought. Mulder must have been something else, keeping a hold on a heart like   
hers. 

Have been. God. I still can't wrap my brain around it. Scully straightens up,   
goes to the drawer, and runs her fingernail along Mulder's name. 

"He's not there," says Skinner, watching us from his vantage point in the   
corner. He gets up and crosses over to Scully. "That's just a shell - his soul's   
out there, with the stars, like you told me. He's at peace, Dana." 

"I want to believe that so much. I have to." She presses her little cross   
against her throat as she speaks. "That last night in Oregon he told me that our   
whole quest had taken too high a toll on me. He felt like he was responsible for   
my pain, but he was the one constant I could count on when it seemed like things   
were unbearable. He gave me...a chance...at happiness..." Her hand drifts   
downward, stroking her stomach. "But he'll never know, will he?" 

"I think he knows," I offer, surprised to hear my own voice. "I mean, I'm not   
Catholic or anything, but I think that somewhere out there that spirit's still   
around, gathering up all the Truth he can handle like a kid at Christmas." 

"Maybe that's his heaven, Dana. The Truth." 

"Even if there's a heaven - do you think he's lonely there?" She's hugging   
herself, rocking back and forth, tears streaming down her face unchecked.   
"Because I miss him so much, and I don't want him to feel that way." 

"Oh, Dana." Skinner's arms go around her and she has to stand on tiptoe to put   
her head down on his shoulder. "He'll miss you, but only for the blink of an   
eye. He's in a place where time doesn't mean anything to him anymore." He rubs   
her back and she arches into his touch. "You're alive, Dana, and that can feel   
like a heavier burden. It will seem like a long, long time, but I promise you   
that you'll be with him again, and he'll know all about your daughter and will   
be so glad, so proud, that you went on with your life." 

"I don't know how to go on," Scully sobs. "I don't know what to do for him, or   
for myself, or for my baby." 

"You let A.D. Skinner and me help you," I offer. "Don't drown yourself in your   
work. I mean that." She turns her head enough to look me in the eye. "Talk to   
people. Your mother, your priest, those three guys with the computer stuff,   
whoever. But don't shut people out and think you're doin' them a favor, because   
that's the worst way to deal with loss." 

It happens again, that bright flame of compassion in her eyes, and she extends   
her hand to me. As I squeeze it, hoping like hell that I'm not about to cry, she   
says, "Thank you, John." 

John. Damn, here come the tears. 

We stand like that for a while with Dana Scully the center of our universe. I   
can't imagine how Mulder could be with her like that and not catch fire from the   
sheer glory of her. I don't know how much time passes, but after a while   
Skinner's watch beeps six times. 

"We need to go," he whispers into Scully's hair. "Do you want a moment alone?" 

"Please." She tightens her fingers around my hand for a moment while she tips   
her head up to kiss Skinner on the cheek. His breath catches but he just stands   
there for a moment, staring sadly at the cold place where Mulder's body lies. 

"C'mon." I nod in the direction of the door and Skinner follows me out. Looks   
like the day shift is here - neither Engracia nor the guy Skinner talked to is   
still here. I walk over to the new fellow at the desk. "I'm Special Agent John   
Doggett from the FBI. I'd like to leave a note for your superiors about someone   
who was very good to us last night. An Engracia Vicente." 

"Who?" 

"Engracia Vicente." I put my hand at about Scully's height. "Hispanic, early   
forties, mole just to the side of her left eyebrow?" 

"Lemme look." He fingers some time cards and shakes his head. "Nope, no one here   
by that name." 

"But she was here. She helped me." 

"Hey, Frank!" The man leans back in his chair and calls out to someone in a   
nearby office. "We have an Engracia Vicente working here?" 

An older, heavyset man lopes up to the desk. "Not for a long time. Why?" 

I address him. "She was here last night. I didn't know what to do for my friend,   
and she helped me. I wanted to thank her." 

"Son, either you've made a mistake or you'll need a Ouija board. Engracia   
Vicente was kidnapped getting into her car three years ago. Her body turned up   
in the woods. You know, where they found that dead FBI guy last night." He   
shakes his head. "Damn shame about her. Wonderful lady." 

Boy, Scully would love this. But I can't tell her about it. Not now, anyway. 

I turn away, gulping air, just in time to see Scully walk out of the morgue. Her   
head's held high and she declines Skinner's arm. I fall in step behind them. 

It's not light yet. There are a million stars in the sky. 

Scully smiles up at them. Her lips form a little kiss, a kiss shimmering with   
the wetness of tears. She tilts her head back, letting the starlight wash over   
her, searching for something only she can see, and she whispers something into   
the eternal brightness. 

"Good night, Mulder." 

***   
End   
*** 

For Barbara D. and Shari, beta goddesses, hand holders, and ass kickers. g> 

Feedback is adored and answered at marguerite@swbell.net.   
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